


shadow of a doubt

by epilogues, fnowae



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Injury, M/M, Murder, ok what even is this, uh, yeah that's about it i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:16:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15406845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilogues/pseuds/epilogues, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fnowae/pseuds/fnowae
Summary: In the middle is a thick yellow file. Inside, is someone who, for a reason Pete is never allowed to know, needs to die. Inside, is Pete’s next job.Pete sighs, opens the file, and…And his heart stops in his chest.





	shadow of a doubt

**Author's Note:**

> so jo and i have had this in the works for like months or some shit, it's. been a Time wowee, we hope you like this?
> 
> also disclaimer i think it's gonna put my name first but jo is the one who wrote most of this so like. mostly credit to them!!

The warm wind blows Pete’s hair to the side. A couple crisp orange leaves tumble off a nearby tree. Pete shifts awkwardly on the rotting wooden bench. He’s going to get splinter through his jeans, he already knows it.

But it’s fine, because according to his watch, he only has to wait another minute before he can leave. And he knows it will be a minute, no more, no less - his contact is always punctual. 

And there she is, right on the dot, a woman in a crisp white dress shirt tucked into her jeans, a shoulder bag tight at her side. 

Pete turns another page of the newspaper clutched in his hands. He isn’t really reading it, but it’s important he hold it, and vitally important he let go the next time the wind blows.

Another gust hits. Pete lets the newspaper go. It skids across the ground. The woman in the crisp shirt goes after it, acting surprised. She isn’t. This is one of her and Pete’s favored methods of exchanging information. 

“You dropped this,” the woman says courteously, bringing the paper back to Pete. (Pete doesn’t know her name, even though they’ve worked together for years. She doesn’t know his. It’s safer that way.)

“Thank you,” Pete says, smiling just like he would at a kind stranger, which this woman is not, but to everyone around them, she needs to be. 

The woman nods and walks off. Pete waits five minutes to divert suspicion before he stands and leaves for his car.

The paper is heavier under his arm now, because it’s no longer just a paper. Now, it’s a newspaper, and a job assignment.

Pete slides into his car and begins his drive home, the paper set on the passenger seat. He’s lucky his husband is busy today - he needs to be home alone.

Pete pulls into his driveway and carries the paper inside. He methodically closes all his blinds before sitting down at the dining room table and opening the newspaper up. 

In the middle is a thick yellow file. Inside, is someone who, for a reason Pete is never allowed to know, needs to die. Inside, is Pete’s next job. 

Pete sighs, opens the file, and…

And his heart stops in his chest.

* * *

Pete has  _ never  _ turned down a job. There have certainly been a few that he’s struggled to complete, but he’s never flat-out refused one. But now, here he is, wondering what the fuck the protocol is for turning down a hit assignment because there’s no way in hell that Pete can do this.

The issue isn’t that he knows the person. He’s killed people that he’s known before, and while it sucks, that’s the job. This one, though, this one’s different. The issue isn’t that Pete knows the person, the issue is that the person is literally sitting across the table from Pete at this very moment, and Pete can’t even imagine a life without him there. 

“Pete?” Patrick says. “You okay?”

Pete startles out of his thoughts and realizes that he’s been staring blankly at a wall for the last five minutes. “Yeah, I’m good, sorry,” he says quickly, returning his gaze to his husband and forcing a smile. 

Patrick reaches across the table and gives Pete’s hand a quick, comforting squeeze, and Pete  _ can’t  _ take this fucking job. He  _ can’t.  _

Pete looks down at his half-empty plate of pizza and sighs. He’s going to have to call his contact and let her know that he can’t take this one.  _ But what if someone else takes it then?  _ his brain whispers, and while Pete has no idea how big the ring his contact works in is, he’s willing to bet that it’s big enough to pass the job on to someone else.  _ Fuck,  _ he thinks. There’s no good way to get out of this. But there’s no way that Pete can take the job. 

“Hey, Trick, I just remembered that I promised my mom I’d give her a call tonight, I’m going to go do that before I forget.” Pete hates it, but he’s a damn good liar. 

Patrick furrows his brow. “In the middle of dinner?”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Pete says, honestly this time, as he stands up and dumps the contents of his plate into the trash. “I’ll be upstairs; this shouldn’t take too long.”

“Okay,” Patrick relents, even if he does seem vaguely concerned. 

Pete kisses him on the cheek before heading up the stairs, already pulling out his phone as he goes. He’s technically not supposed to use it, but his contact slips a number into each assignment, a different one every time, just in case there’s some sort of complication. Once he’s up in his room, he pulls the file out from under the false bottom of his sock drawer and types the number in. An unknown voice picks up on the fourth ring. 

“Complication?”

“Yes. I can’t complete this assignment,” Pete says, careful not to let his voice waver. 

“Assignment 325-B?” the voice asks. 

“Yes,” Pete answers, double-checking the number against the file quickly. 

There’s a long pause before the voice speaks again. “The client for Assignment 325-B has provided a message in the event that such a complication arises. This message will be read now.” Whoever the person is on the other end of the line clears their throat a bit before saying, “I know who you are, and unless this job is completed within two weeks of its assignment, I’m going to leak evidence of your involvement in this organization..” The voice pauses again. “Does that resolve your complication?”

Pete feels like he’s physically gotten the wind knocked out of him. “Fuck, I- Yes. Yes. Thank you,” he says in a rush, jabbing the button to end the call with a shaking finger. Fuck. 

No one can find out. Pete’s managed to keep this a secret for  _ years,  _ and not only will the legal consequences land him in jail probably for the rest of his life, the more pressing concern to him is the way he knows all of his friends and family will react. “Fuck,” he exhales. “Fuck.” Patrick hates killing  _ bugs _ , okay, how the fuck would he react to finding out that his husband is literally a paid hitman?

_ He’d leave, _ Pete realizes. He’d leave Pete, and Pete fucking knows that it’s selfish, hates himself for even thinking about this, but if he’s losing Patrick either way - “No,” he says aloud, cutting off his own thoughts. “I can’t. I  _ can’t.” _

Pete clenches his hands into fists, letting his fingernails dig into the skin of his palm in a way that’s going to leave marks. He can’t. He can’t. But at the same time, he can’t just give up literally everything that he has. Being exposed would mean losing his freedom, his family, his friends, his  _ husband,  _ and yet Pete knows he’ll never be able to do it. He  _ can’t.  _

“Fuck,” Pete says again, but he’s already composing himself, already getting ready to go downstairs and see Patrick. He’s halfway down the steps when he freezes, a whole new idea occurring to him.  _ What if it’s a bluff? _

And honestly, Pete has no idea how he let himself get so caught up emotionally that he never even thought that the message was a fucking bluff. The more he thinks about it, the more likely it seems. The message hadn’t even included his  _ name,  _ for crying out loud. There’s no way that it’s real. 

Pete rolls his eyes at himself, pushing down the anxious waves of  _ what if it’s not?  _ as he heads down the stairs because of course it is. There’s no other option. 

“Hey,” Patrick says when Pete comes into the living room. “How’s your mom doing?”

“She’s good,” Pete says, dropping onto the couch and nestling his head into the crook of Patrick’s neck, sliding one arm around his husband’s waist.

It’s a bluff. It has to be. Still, though, there’s a worried feeling in the back of his mind that makes him tighten his arms around Patrick a little more than usual, like he’s holding on

* * *

 

Pete isn’t going to do the job.

He just isn’t. There’s no other way around it.

They can threaten him all they want, but he won’t do it. There’s no way he can kill the love of his life. No threat, no sum of money can change that.

(He would, actually, get paid quite a lot  _ if  _ he went through with this. These jobs are always well-paid, but someone wants Patrick dead bad enough to offer twice Pete’s average price. That’s too bad for them, Pete supposes, because he’s  _ not doing it. _ )

Pete made his final decision this morning, when he woke up with Patrick curled up next to him, warm and still dreaming, eyelids fluttering gently, and he realized there’s no way he’d ever let himself wake up in that bed and find it empty. There’s no way he could ever wake up without Patrick at his side. In that moment, it was all perfectly clear. Pete wouldn’t let an obvious bluff kill his husband. He would never. 

So now, overjoyed that the situation is clearly over and done with, Pete has called in to a small but fancy restaurant in the next town over, made reservations, and he and Patrick are on their way to a fun, romantic dinner, both dressed up and excited. (Patrick is especially excited, because as he’d said when Pete had announced they were going out, Pete has been acting weird for a little while, and Patrick is so relieved that everything is okay again.)

Pete is clutching Patrick’s hand with his that isn’t on the wheel, and he casts a soft smile at his husband before his eyes flick back to the road. Two weeks of worrying has melted away. Everything is going to be okay. They’re both going to be okay. 

That’s when Pete’s phone rings.

Pete frowns, checking the caller ID - there isn’t any. That’s never a good sign. He doesn’t recognize the area code, either, and his phone doesn’t place a city under the number like it usually does when someone who isn’t in his contacts calls.

Something is wrong with this number, and Pete knows exactly what. 

“Sorry, babe, gotta take this,” he says anxiously, unhooking his hand from Patrick’s to pick up the phone and deftly answer it. He’s unsure if it’s his contact, calling from a new number, or if it’s someone else entirely, but he is sure it’s for his work. His  _ less well-known  _ work.

Patrick nods understandingly, though he really doesn’t understand at all. Pete winces, but he can’t think any harder on that before a voice speaks.

It’s not his contact, or anyone who’s ever spoken to him before.

“Hello,” the voice says. It’s deep and echoey, and the slow pace of it makes it seem to be oddly stretched out - it sounds like someone speaking through a voice modifier, except Pete knows what that sounds like, because in his line of work, he’s heard plenty of that, and he knows the odd fuzz and unnatural sound of it, except this voice has none of that. It’s as if the tone of a voice modifier is the caller’s natural voice. It’s unsettling, to say the least.

“Hi,” Pete says, keeping his voice even as not to arouse suspicion in Patrick, who is still just to his right - in what Pete realizes with a sudden flash of dread is the exact seat Patrick’s file had sat in on the way home from the park two weeks ago. Shaking away what seems like an omen, Pete asks, “Who is this?”

“You know who I am,” the voice says, and Pete does, but the voice still makes sure he does, continuing, “I believe I paid you to complete assignment 325-B?”

Pete’s heart stops in his chest. Of course he’d known this was going to be his client, of course he’d  _ known  _ this was whoever ordered Patrick’s death, but hearing it said is scarily real. Pete is supposed to be done with this. He isn’t doing this job. And he’s going to tell his client exactly that.

“I’m not doing it,” he says, trying very hard to keep his voice level so Patrick doesn’t question the odd words, and it works. Pete has gotten terrifyingly good at acting, since it’s necessary to cover up his job. No one he knows outside of that job would tell you he’s any good at acting - in fact, they’d tell you quite the opposite - but it’s true.

“So you understand what I’m going to have to do?” his client asks. “You know the terms.”   


Pete bites his lip, reminds himself that he’s too careful for the threat to have been real. The client doesn’t know who he is, so there’s nothing to reveal in the first place. He takes a deep breath. 

“You don’t know anything,” he says, which gets an odd look from Patrick, but Pete ignores it, too busy reassuring himself.

The client chuckles. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Pete.”

Pete’s heart drops out of his chest, or stops, or something to that effect. That’s impossible. This client doesn’t know anything,  _ can’t  _ know anything.

Pete can’t bring himself to try to sound non-suspicious anymore as he breathes out, voice shaking, “No names.” No use of names on an unsecured line is standard procedure, it’s too risky.

Patrick, of course, gives an especially concerned look after Pete says that, but Pete isn’t even paying attention enough to care.

The client laughs again, and his laugh is as deep and unnatural as his voice. “Don’t worry, this is a secure line. However…” he sighs dramatically. “I can only promise that if you do your job.”

Pete’s stomach twists. He might throw up. He’d only just convinced himself that things would be okay, and now it’s looking like they won’t be okay at all. 

When Pete says nothing more, his client says, his tone cold and final, “You have ten minutes.”

“Wait-” Pete starts, eyes going wide, all hope of acting like this is just a normal phone call destroyed. Before he can protest anymore, the line goes dead. 

Pete swears and drops his phone, not even caring that it tumbles into that little space between the seat and the center console. 

“Pete?”   
  
Pete startles, having momentarily forgotten that Patrick was actually in the car with him. His eyes flicker over to his husband, his breath shaky. 

“Pete?” Patrick repeats. “Is everything alright?”   


Everything is not alright. “Yeah,” Pete lies. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

“Okay,” Patrick says, sounding only partially satisfied with Pete’s response.

Pete might actually throw up.

He has a choice now, he realizes, once he gets past the shock enough to process what’s just happened. He has  _ ten minutes. _ He can either kill Patrick, or he can keep him, and let his client make sure everyone he knows knows exactly what he’s been doing with his spare time for the past ten years.

Pete realizes with a horrifying jolt that… that isn’t the choice at all. The choice isn’t whether or not he wants to lose Patrick. He’ll lose Patrick either way. There’s no  _ way  _ Patrick will ever speak to him again if he knows about Pete’s job, and it’s not as if they’ll have a great relationship anyways when Pete’s in jail. And, though Pete won’t admit it, jail is the best case scenario. He wonders, fleetingly, if he’s killed enough people to warrant the death penalty. (The wondering bit is a lie he makes up for himself - he knows he has. He absolutely has. He doesn’t want to think about that.)

So the choice isn’t about whether or not he loses Patrick.

The choice is whether Pete would rather have Patrick die thinking well of him, or have Patrick live, knowing exactly what his husband ( _ or ex-husband,  _ Pete’s mind provides unhelpfully) has done, exactly how many people he’s killed.

“Babe, are you sure you’re alright?” Patrick asks anxiously, and Pete realizes he’s been staring straight ahead blankly for a good five minutes, squeezing the wheel so tightly his knuckles have gone white. Pete takes a shaky breath.  _ A good five minutes.  _ Half his time is already spent. He needs to decide, and he needs to decide  _ now.  _

“Yeah,” Pete says, and it’s a lie, again, but he doesn’t care anymore. He looks over to Patrick, grabs his hand and squeezes, offering a thin smile. Patrick smiles back, genuinely, and there’s nothing but love in his eyes, and that’s what breaks Pete. 

God, he knows it’s selfish, knows he shouldn’t even think it, but he just can’t imagine Patrick knowing what he does. He can’t imagine Patrick looking at him with anything other than love, anything other than  _ innocence.  _ It occurs to Pete that his husband’s life is less important to him than his husband’s thoughts on him. 

Pete looks back to the road. Dear god, he can’t believe he’s doing this.

Pete can name a hundred easy ways that Patrick could die, right here, right now, and it wouldn’t even take him a second. If he wants something that leaves no trace, he can name about fifty. But this isn’t a normal job, and he cares about more than just getting off scot free. He needs something that lets Patrick die knowing nothing, still leaves his husband innocent to the last breath. Even if he’ll only know for a second, it will be too long. Patrick will die, and he’ll die with absolutely no idea that it was purposeful. He’ll die with no idea that Pete did it.

Pete shakes his head, clears his thoughts, and checks his watch. Three minutes. It’s now or never. 

“Patrick,” he says softly, cringing when a couple tears gather in his eyes, “you know I love you, right?”   


“Yes,” Patrick answers immediately, with certainty, which only makes Pete feel worse. “Are you sure everything’s alright? We can go home if we need to.”

Pete shakes his head, pushing away a fleeting thought about how Patrick will never go home again. “It’s okay. Just…I don’t know, I just needed to say that,” he says.  _ One last time,  _ he doesn’t say. 

“Okay,” Patrick says, soft and loving. Pete takes it in. It may be the last time he ever hears it.

It takes Pete ten seconds to find a way that will look accidental, even to Patrick. It takes him another ten to convince himself that this is the right choice, and another ten to finally take action.

Forcing himself to put up an act in front of Patrick one last time, Pete suddenly screams, “Oh, SHIT!”, eyes widening, gaping at the road in front of him, at some imaginary car or truck or obstacle that isn’t actually there. He swerves sharply right, off the road, as Patrick yells, “Pete, fuck, what’s going on?”

“Shit, sorry, don’t know, I saw something-” Pete responds, and he doesn’t need to fake his shaking breath, his weak, fearful voice. He pretends he’s trying to steer back on the road, but he’s aiming for something else entirely. 

Pete had identified the tree thirty seconds ago, from a distance, as the perfect one. The thin but tough trunk makes it all too easy to ram into it full force with only half a car - the half with Patrick inside.

“Pete, shit, there’s a-” Patrick begins as the dark shape looms above them, but he never finishes, because at the second the car makes impact with the tree, and Patrick’s voice cuts off.

Pete stops the car - not like he could keep going anyway, it’s fucking wrecked. He doesn’t look yet, can’t bring himself to see whatever he’s done. He knows the passenger side is completely crumpled in on itself, mostly because a piece of it bent so far that the torn metal scraped his cheek, and he feels wet blood dripping down his face. Otherwise, he’s unharmed - which is completely intentional. 

Pete is going to wait a little longer to look, he’s going to calm himself down before he forces himself to accept what he’s done, except then something shifts and he hears a weak, strained, “Oh, shit.”

Pete’s head snaps to the right, and his stomach drops for the second time tonight. Just like he’d known it would be, the other side of the car has been completely crushed by the tree trunk, folding in until it’s almost unrecognizable as a car. And trapped under that horrid tangle of metal, covered in blood and bruises, is Patrick. Blood seems to be  _ pouring  _ from slashes on his arms, cheek, torso, and one of his fucking  _ eyes,  _ and the entire left side of his face is one huge bruise, but he’s still breathing. Barely.

Pete isn’t sure what to do, wasn’t expecting anything but instant death - was hoping for it, if he’s honest, it would’ve been easier. The still-present rise and fall of Patrick’s bloody chest wasn’t part of the plan.

Patrick coughs, and Pete cringes when a little bit of blood comes out and drips down, staining Patrick’s suit further. His  _ suit.  _ They’re supposed to be on a  _ date,  _ Pete remembers suddenly, he’s supposed to be kissing Patrick’s cheek and offering to pay for his food, not  _ killing  _ him. 

Patrick’s head turns, and he meets Pete’s eyes with his one good one. Pete’s heart nearly breaks in two. 

“Huh,” Patrick says, pausing to cough up a little more blood, “I think I might be a little hurt.”

Pete can’t take this anymore, and he breaks, choking out sobs until his eyes sting and his face is wet with more than blood. He knows with each second he doesn’t do something, Patrick loses more blood, comes closer to death, but wasn’t that the point anyway?

“Can you get me out?” Patrick asks, trying to shift a little himself, but only succeeding in scraping his hand against what used to be the glove compartment. 

“Y-yeah,” Pete stammers, feeling blank and robotic as he opens his own, completely intact door, and crosses around the back of the car to Patrick’s, which…is going to be a pain to open, to say the least.

Pete tugs at what used to be a handle until, with a terrifying metallic scream, the door peels open, revealing Patrick still laying inside.

“Hey,” Patrick coughs out, the word mixing with more blood. There’s too much blood, and in that moment Pete  _ knows  _ Patrick isn’t making it through the night. He has to remind himself that that’s what he’d wanted…wasn’t it?

“C’mere,” Pete says softly, tugging Patrick out of the car and into his arms. The blood that’s still coming  _ too fast  _ stains his suit, too, which only makes Pete hold Patrick tighter as he kneels to the ground.

“Pete,” Patrick says, his voice distant, like he’s a million miles away, “I’m not gonna make it, am I?”   


Pete’s heart is probably irreparably damaged from breaking so many times in one night. He shakes his head, and, just like he has so many times already, he lies. “Don’t say that,” he says, “you’ll be alright.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Patrick responds, and Pete chokes, sobs.  _ I wish I didn’t have to,  _ he thinks, and it’s the most truthful thing of the whole night.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, running a hand through Patrick’s hair, trying to ignore the places where it’s clotted with blood. Blood, blood, blood, is all Pete can feel and see and think about.

“‘s okay,” Patrick murmurs, and Pete pretends he doesn’t notice how Patrick’s voice is barely there anymore. “Not your fault.”

Pete wants to scream, because it is, it so obviously  _ is.  _ All of this is his fault, he did this on  _ purpose,  _ but Patrick doesn’t know, of course not. And it  _ hurts.  _

“I love you,” is all he can say, “so much.”

Patrick’s mouth stretches into a thin, pained smile. “Love…” he starts, pausing to cough up more blood. “You.”

The word “too” forms on his lips, but it never comes out. Under Pete’s hand, Patrick’s chest rises and falls for the last time. 

Pete should be in tears, he should be sobbing, his  _ dead husband  _ is in his arms, but instead he detaches himself, tries to remind himself this was the right choice.

Except, when he looks down at Patrick and sees nothing but a pale, blank face, and one good eye staring into infinity, he wonders if this was the right choice after all. 

Pete doesn’t get to consider this further before his phone rings. It’s still in the car, still trapped under his seat. Pete has to set Patrick down to rush and get it.    


He recovers the phone to find it’s the same number he’d answered in the car -  _ when Patrick was still alive.  _ Thinking about Patrick in the past tense is uncomfortable, so Pete stops doing it.

He picks up.

“Did you do it?” the rich voice asks.

Pete’s eyes automatically shift to Patrick, on the ground on the other side of the car, perfectly motionless.

“Yes,” he answers, trying to keep himself from crying when a client could hear, “I did.”

“Good,” the client says, businesslike, with no sympathy for what he must know Pete is feeling right now, “the money will get to you within a month.”   


The line goes dead, again. Pete pulls the phone away from his ear, shaking, and forces his mind back into logical thought, back into the procedures he’s used to from his job. Luckily - or...not so much - he doesn’t need an alibi this time.

Pete forces himself back to Patrick’s body, forces himself to take his husband back into his arms. One last time. That’s a phrase he’s used a little too much tonight.

He takes his phone, and, taking a deep breath, letting all the emotion he’s pushed back flood to the surface, dials 911. 

“Hello?” he says, choking the word out in the middle of a sob. “There’s been an accident.”   

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! comments are rly appreciated!


End file.
